


Iron Winter

by feverbeats



Series: Patience and Despair [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-27
Updated: 2009-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's dying," Snape says sharply, and his voice cuts through the bitter cold in Draco's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Winter

_I choose January with its chill  
lessons of patience and despair_  
-"The Almanac of Last Things" by Linda Pastan.

Ever since Voldemort lost the war and his Death Eaters won it, Draco Malfoy has been miserable. The unfairness of it all has been like an itch his brain, reminding him that endings are messy and rarely clear-cut. The Dark Lord may be dead and Potter may be in the Death Eaters' custody, but the Death Eaters and the resistance faction are still warring on.

And Draco is mostly kept out of the way, standing on the sidelines and having to crane his neck if he wants even a glimpse of a battle. Of course, he really doesn't. He's seen enough death and pain to last him a lifetime, although he's seen far less than almost everyone else. Having a low tolerance for discomfort is probably what got him into the mess that is his life in the first place.

While he is set apart from the action, he is never neglected. Today, he is seated in the warm, open dining room of Bellatrix's new castle, trying to learn French.

Although she has dropped her married name since her husband's death, Bella did pick up certain things from him. There is French in the Blacks' blood anyhow, and she's always pronounced _Lestrange_ in the French way.

“ _Toujours pur_ ,” Draco repeats tiredly. “I know that one from the tapestry in the old house at Grimmauld Place.” He hates that house and he can't stand being made to go there. The French sticks to the roof his mouth when he tries to spit it out.

Bellatrix laughs. “ _Mais c'est important, Draco. Cette expression_.”

He shoves his chair back and it scrapes against the floor. “I'm tired of this.” Then he pauses. “Tell me again. The word for snake.”

“ _Serpant_ ,” Bellatrix says, frowning. “ _Porquoi?_ ”

Draco is terrible at remembering question words, possibly because he hates answering questions. “ _Je déteste une serpents_.”

Bellatrix stands. “Not _une_. We need to work on the little things. But perhaps later. I have things to attend to.” The fact that she seems more bothered by his poor French than what he's actually saying is both irritating and a relief.

After a few minutes, Draco gives up sitting there and sulking, opting instead to apparate back to Hogwarts. He wishes Bella would tear down the wards that prevent apparation except at an insane distance from the castle. It's January, the walk to the looming towers of Hogwarts becomes even more intimidating every time Draco walks home there. The idea that it is his _home_ still comes hard, because it felt more like home when it was full of people, even if they were people he hated.

He's out of breath by the time he reaches the doors, cursing his aunt for wasting his time on languages that just skip and stutter when he tries to speak them.

He should know Latin, but the patchwork of spells he can remember properly isn't much to go on. He doesn't actually know whether or not he's good at magic, anyway, because he's never had a chance to find out. He's been coasting by his entire life on daddy's money, Gregory and Vincent's fists, and everyone else's fear.

He sits down at the huge table in the Great Hall, where a goblet his waiting for him, but his drink is frozen solid. “Thanks, elf,” he says, frowning. He sits at the Ravenclaw table, because it requires less explanation. Not Gryffindor, not Slytherin. Certainly not Dumbledore's seat. Sometimes he lets himself get tired, and he wishes he didn't have to think about where to sit.

*

Two hours later, he's back in Bella's castle, because there's a Death Eater meeting and he should technically be in attendance. He suspects that no one would notice if he slipped off to smoke in the frigid winter air outside, but getting up would be too much trouble. He started smoking after he didn't kill Dumbledore, although he's not sure the two are related.

He looks out at the rows and rows of new Death Eaters and he is nothing more than supremely bored. He used to be so afraid, but what's to be afraid of when you're being led by your aunt and your godfather who pamper and adore you?

He's wearing black because it's closer to honesty, or maybe because it makes him look good, his white-blonde hair standing out stark and light against his dark clothing.

Snape is talking, his velvety voice dripping into the ears of the new recruits, soft and liquid.

 _Go away_ , Draco thinks, clenching his cold hands into fists.

Then there's a sudden disturbance, a burst of light and warmth near Draco's corner of the room. One of the new recruits is wielding a wand, shooting bright sparks out of the end as she cries bastardized Latin into the cold air.

Snape swears and moves quickly, dodging her curses, but she is spinning, attacking the young Death Eaters around her. Draco is not quick enough, and a spell hits him square in the chest, settling there solidly and quietly.

Before he loses consciousness, he feels his fingers going numb.

*

“It was a freezing spell,” Bellatrix says. Her voice sounds very far away, as if he's hearing it through—

 _Ice. His world is ice. Ice behind his eyes and in his throat and crusting over the surface of his chest, slick and brittle. Ice in his lungs._

“He's dying,” Snape says sharply, and his voice cuts through the bitter cold in Draco's head.

Draco wants to ask if they took out the girl, the spy, or if she got away with killing him. He gets the feeling that he's an acceptable loss, anyway. The idea of death seems very far away and unimportant at the moment, and all he can think is that his fingers are still numb.

“Can you save him?” Bellatrix asks after far too long.

Snape shakes his head. “I don't know. But I'll try.”

At least they're pretending they want to do something for him, which is close to being a comfort. He closes his eyes.

*

“ _Ouvre tes yeux_.”

Draco does so, blinking hard.

“I'm so cold,” he whispers through blue, chapped lips. _Je suis si froid_ , his mind translates, the words slipping through the cracks of his consciousness. Then again, he's never been able to keep straight the words for _cold_ and _hungry_ , and he's not sure he has it right.

He must be alive, but he doesn't feel as though he is.

*

The next time he wakes up, the room is empty, and it's night. He's still in the little bed in Bella's castle, thin sheets shoved aside as if Snape and Bella know they won't do any good in keeping Draco warm. He wonders, for the first time, why the girl attacked him. If she'd know him, she wouldn't have bothered.

“ _Vous mourez_.”

Draco looks up. Cedric Diggory is sitting at the foot of his bed, skin paler than Draco's, although less icy-looking. The blue edges of death have crept in around his eyes and mouth, marking him like deep shadows. He looks like an Inferius, but Inferi don't come into people's bedrooms and speak French to them.

“Diggory isn't even a French name,” Draco says, feeling panicky. “And your death didn't have anything to do with me. Just go away.”

“ _Ce devrait avoir été vous. Ce devrait avoir été vous chaque fois_.”

The fact that Diggory is using words Draco doesn't know proves that either this isn't a hallucination, or that it's a really severe one. He isn't sure if the French actually quite translates properly, either. His head hurts.

Before he can think of a response, he drifts into an uneasy sleep again.

*

The ice traces dark circles under Draco’s eyes in the days to come. He doesn’t sleep or eat. He hardly breathes.

At least he's not seeing any more dead people, though, and within a week he's able to stand again. Snape tells him that the spell is passing, but he isn't so sure. Everyone motion makes his joints creak with cold.

He paces his room, making himself work his numb toes against the floor. Pausing in front the full length window, he realizes he's on the ground floor. Outside, the world is white.

Snape comes into the room behind him, moving almost silently. Draco isn't taken by surprise, though. He's been slowly learning who Snape really is, and that include his movements and the small sound his robes make against the floor.

“I see you're on your feet,” Snape says. “That's good. I have something for you.”

Draco forces himself to turn around slowly. He distrusts gifts by now, after receiving too many from Bellatrix.

Snape hands him a battered book, the title obscured by age. Flipping it open, Draco sees that it's a book of spells. He sighs, about to close it, when he notices a quotation written in black ink inside the front cover. It says, in Snape's loopy handwriting, _I sometimes think we sort too soon_ , but it's in quotation marks. It remains unattributed, and Draco wonders why. He also resents it deeply. He has always been a Slytherin, ever since he was born. Since before that.

“ _Va chier_ ,” he spits at Snape on a whim.

Snape's expression betrays nothing, and Draco thinks he must not know French. Draco tries to figure out the French for the nickname Snape has been using. _Le prince de motié-sang_ , maybe? He shakes his head, frowning.

“I'll leave you to your recovery,” Snape says stiffly. “I think you'll come around, don't you?” Then he sweeps out without waiting for a response, shutting the door with a click.

Draco huffs out a breath against the window and uses his finger to write the French for _I don't know_.


End file.
